Before and After
by tarpeach1981
Summary: There are moments in life that shift what defines you, become a bright line in the map of your existence. There is before and there is after. Natasha/Clint, the origin of their friendship, and potential romantic feelings if you squint. T to be safe. Will be a two-parter.
1. Chapter 1

Before and After Part 1

**A/N: So…I am finally pulling upon all my courage and putting my own story out into the ether for others to look at and, hopefully, enjoy. I am a newbie, and I hope you will take the time to review and let me know what you think. Please don't flame. I am a sensitive soul. ;) I have to say thanks to authors Sinkme and ****Cookie-Stories for their encouragement and feedback! If you haven't read their work, do it. They are amazingly awesome story-tellers. Give me a bit of a complex if I am honest. Well, here you go. Hope you like!**

**Disclaimer: I own many things, some useful, some not, but I don't own any of the characters, situations, or places I have played with in this story. But oh, to dream. **

The life of an assassin, though filled with action and danger, can provide a person with many moments of quiet. Many killers have gotten themselves lost in those moments, allowing for memories and introspection to eat away at their will, their souls. Delving too deep into the past can be more deadly than an enemy's bullet, leading to liquor, recklessness, or even a single shot in the night. Which is why she avoided contemplating her life as a general rule.

But sometimes, when her current mission was stalled by insufficient intel or bureaucratic red tape, she indulged in the desire for some perspective on what brought her to her current life. Choice. As an orphan, recruited and trained for the Red Room program, choice was never an option. They beat all free will from her early, taking even the simplest of decisions out of her hands. She was told where to walk, when to talk, what to eat, then who to hit, cut, kill. As she grew older, they molded how she walked, talked, danced, until she was as alluring as she was deadly.

With such control, the concept of choice was as foreign as the concept of companionship or trust. One should never rely on another, for there lays weakness. And weakness is how one fails. Failure is death. Failure shames her program. Looking back, she knew how very warped her view of the world was, but her younger self knew nothing more that orders and their completion. She spilled so much blood during those early days, but she had never felt the burden of guilt over those lost lives. Without choice, she was simply a weapon, one that the Red Room wielded with lethal efficiency. Do weapons bear the guilt of the dead?

And so she lived for years, before him. Her days were marked with an apathy and emptiness. She simply moved forward, using her training, following orders. His arrival marked a shift, a bright line in the map of her existence. She had a sense of something different, a feeling of being observed, for days before. But observation was something she was accustomed to. People paid attention to her. Her fiery hair and womanly curves were one of the reasons she was so affective, an appealing lure for her targets. Her first instinct was evasion, changing routes, changing safe houses, until she felt sure no one could know her location or target.

He arrived the next day, slipping past her defenses, in more ways than one. She had arrived at her cheerless apartment in downtown Pristina after a long day of manipulating state secrets out of the local official she was tasked to, when she heard his voice from the darkened corner of her bedroom.

"Good evening."

To say that she was shaken to her core would be an understatement. No one had ever been able to sneak up on her, not since she was a little girl. As she turned, the man stepped out of the shadows and she saw her new target. Immediately, she shifted her features to display fear, dismay. Men were suckers for a fearful young girl, and she planned to play the role, letting his protective instinct give her an opening. Poor man, he wouldn't know she played him until her little hands snapped his neck.

But his posture didn't change, his handgun didn't lower as she cowered back and whimpered.

"What do you want?," she whispered in flawless Albanian. "Please, take what you want, just don't hurt me."

The man smiled and leaned back against the wall, the posture that of relaxation and ease, but his grip and aim never wavered. "I know who you are, ma'am. No need for gamesmanship." American. Not a stupid thug, someone here for her.

She shifted posture, straightening her body and coiling her muscles in preparation for any window of opportunity he might gift her. "I suppose you are here to kill me."

His head tilted slightly at the hint of resignation in her voice, but she could see that this assassin was not fooled by her seeming lack of resistance. "Those are my orders. Been on you for a while. Must say, I was impressed with your counter-surveillance efforts. You have a talent."

She smiled sadly. "I am so glad you took the time to admire my skills before you complete your kill orders. It is good to be appreciated for one's talents, even if they haven't served me well enough to escape you. And I suppose you will try to extract information before you complete those orders." She wrapped her arms around herself, feigning distress, as she slid her hand towards the small knife tucked in her waistband.

"Now why would you want to ruin our pleasant conversation by going for that knife?" He straightened up, but did not move closer to her. Smart man. Before he could say another word, she had the knife out and up to her own throat. She knew what this man meant. She was compromised, her training was clear. No way out. No choice. Preserve the mission, preserve her program. One quick pull.

"What's your name?" Her hand paused. The man had not moved when asking the question, but a look of genuine concern seemed to flash in his eyes. Now it was her turn to tilt her head in confusion.

"What does that matter?" she hissed, tightening her grip on the knife as her mind whirled to find what angle he must be playing.

"Well, I want to know the who and the why if I am going to live with watching you take your own life," he sighed.

"Live with it, you are going to torture and kill me, why would you care if I accomplished your mission for you?" Her body was cold, she was ready, but once again her hand was stilled by his words.

"Now don't be putting words in my mouth. I never said I was going to kill you." His lips quirked, like he had just played a little joke on a friend. "I said those were my orders."

"I don't understand the distinction." Internally, her mind was spinning, trying to get a fix on this smirking, riddling, enigma of a killer. Everything in her screamed that he was telling the truth about not wanting to harm her, something that did not fit in to her understanding of the world.

"Well, I don't imagine my boss will be overly thrilled, but he didn't recruit me because of my ability to follow orders. More my aim." He gestured to the corner behind him, and she kicked herself for being so focused on her guest that she didn't notice was laying at his feet. A bow and a mechanical quiver of arrows.

"Hawkeye. SHIELD." Not an assassin. A sniper. A man who killed from a distance, not in the confines of a small bedroom, up close and personal.

"So you know my codename. I suppose I should be flattered. But you also know that I am telling the truth now. So back to my question. What's your name?"

He wasn't here to kill her, at least not right now. He was right, she did know now. He could have killed her at a distance, at any time. Somehow, knowing this made her feel as if the world had shifted on its axis, as if he was shattering the laws of physics.

For the first time, she really looked at him. His eyes, which never seemed to stop moving, looking, were a cool grey, and his short hair was a bit disheveled, as if he was prone to running his hands through it. He had a boyish face, but weathered a bit. The corners of his eyes creased when his lips curled in that infuriating half-smile. He was a person. Her training balked at her sudden notice of his humanity rather than his weakness as a target. She had to get back the upper-hand.

"My name is Widow," she growled. She knew what her name meant in the world of espionage. She was deadly, skilled. He should fear her.

"No. I didn't ask your codename, that is what I do know. I want your name." She gave him a dirty look, but he only seemed to be amused at her anger.

"Ana."

This time he outright laughed at her answer. "You are a stubborn one, aren't you? Not your cover. Your real name. The one your parents gave you?" He looked at her with the same half-smile he had worn since he greeted her in her own room.

"Natasha." The answer came so suddenly, unexpectedly, that it surprised even her. The answer came from a part of her so deeply buried she had thought it was rotted and decayed, beyond recognition.

"Well, then, that's better. Nice to meet you, Natasha. My name is Clint, and I am here because I would like to give you a choice."

And so began her after. After him. After Clint. Amazingly, she took to making her own choices exceptionally well. Sure, she had orders, but she also had knowledge, information, free will. She had a purpose and a code. He gave that to her, and she owed him her entire world. Never one to bear a debt well, she had spent the last six years making payment to him, first grudgingly, then with a sense of mutual admiration of skill, and now, with commitment reserved for the most devoted of friends.

'He even taught her what the meaning of that word was, damn him,' she thought fondly as she pulled her mind back to the present.

She stared at the ceiling of her room, much cleaner than that run-down apartment that lingered in her mind's eye. They had been separated for several months, her to Russia to manipulate a stupid and loose-lipped corrupt General and him to a babysitting job at their base in the middle of the desert. Somehow, being so far from him left her feeling … uneven. Hopefully, after her "blown cover" interrogation tonight, she would be headed there, back to watching his back while he watched that damned glowy blue box. She sighed wearily when her phone rang, pulling her from her memories. The mission was on. Time to put on the pretty dress and the look of a clueless amateur. With a slight smile, she imagined herself on a plane to him in less than 36 hours.

**A/N…again: Part 2 will be from Clint's perspective, if you guys would like to see that done. Please take a moment to give me some feedback. Giddy happiness will ensue if you do. *sits at my computer and watches clips from Avengers, replayreplay***


	2. Chapter 2

Before and After Part 2

**A/N: I am verklempt. No other word for it. Thank you to everyone who read/favorited/reviewed Part 1! Giddyness abound in my world, and I have you all to thank for it! I hope that you enjoy Clint's perspective, and I hope you let me know what you think by clicking a couple buttons down at the bottom of the page! I also have some news at the end, so please take the time to read. But on with the story…**

**Disclaimer: I own many things, some useful, some not, but I don't own any of the characters, situations, or places I have played with in this story. But oh, to dream. **

The life of a sniper was, quite simply, an exercise in refraining from gouging your own eyes out from sheer, damned boredom. Hours of waiting, completely still and focused, for a single moment, a tightened grip, a pulled string, release, and impact. But the in between? That could make or break the mind of the shooter. Just don't start talking to yourself. Bad sign. He was thankful, then, that his life had provided him with an over-abundance of quiet introspective moments long before he stumbled into his current profession.

He was always a bit of a loner, even as a child, finding that a quick climb up the tree helped him escape the noise and chaos of a dysfunctional, loud family. This skill was even more handy fleeing the bullies, young and old, of the orphanage he and his older brother, Barney, had landed in after the crash ripped him from the life and family of which his childish mind had been so dismissive.

Withdrawing into his perch up in the tallest of trees, high above taunting and violence, he was able to see how very small his tormentors were in reality. He found his place. All he needed was a bit of distance. When Barney had plotted to run away to join Carson Carnival, he had followed as the dutiful brother. Turns out it wasn't such a hare-brained idea after all. Not only did he learn the art of sarcasm from the colorful players filtering in and out of the show, but he learned a skill that would come to define him. Archery.

A keen eye. That was what the Swordsman said he possessed. What he saw though, when he got some distance, was a thieving mentor. Disillusioned, he had planned to reveal what he knew, but the Swordsman had other ideas. Left beaten and betrayed, he never trusted familiarity again. Not even family. When his brother chose a bus ticket to the Army, he resisted just long enough to lose sight of his only remaining link to the grounded world. So Barney was gone. And so were his scruples. Hey, can't beat them, join them. He parlayed his skills into a career within the ranks of the most despicable. He killed for a living.

Cold-blooded? Maybe. Snipers have distance, aiming not at a living being but the empty air just before they occupied it, focusing not on the smile or the eyes of their target, but at the shift of the leaves or a flag for windage. But for the intervention of a certain SHIELD agent who saw potential and lack of purpose instead of threat and malice of mind, he would likely have ended up dead or worse, without soul. Now, his targets were chosen for their threat level, not the highest bidder, he made a positive difference in the world, and he still had his distance. Until her.

When Coulson handed him the file, he had to swallow his distaste. Killing women was one qualm he still held, a throwback to the rules of gentlemanly behavior his mother had only begun to instill in him before her death. Further reading showed the reasoning behind the hit. She was as deadly as her codename, with confirmed kills numbering higher than her estimated age. He was to confirm her current target and then eliminate the threat. That was all she could be to him, a threat and the empty air just before. Distance.

One week, that was all it took for him to lose his death grip on the distance that had defined him. Somehow, as he observed her, his keen eye lost focus on the empty space and was caught on her empty eyes. In the file, her pictures captured her stunning features, deadly curves, and fiery locks, but none of them revealed the absence, the nonexistence, lurking behind the beautiful face. Shaken by his newly acquired lack of perspective, he attempted to refocus, but as every sniper knows, there is no return once you have altered the sight.

So he kept watch, trying to discern what made him take notice. After days of tailing her, watching her operate, play her role (all while dodging a very insistent handler asking him what was taking so damned long), he finally put his finger on it. Her every movement was that of a mechanism, a set of gears and pieces constructed to play out predetermined actions. She was a wind-up doll. The realization burned in him, recalling memories of his own past, the feeling of not having a choice in his own life. To hell with that, if he deserved the chance at redemption, he refused to take her life without at least giving her the same courtesy.

First, though, he had to get close. Much closer than he was comfortable with. He had all the skills of a trained agent, so the how was not a problem. He slipped into her run-down cover apartment with ease and got back to what he was comfortable with…waiting. He must have been even stealthier than he thought, as he stepped forward, handgun at the ready, to get her attention. Score one for the sneaky sniper. Now he just had to talk her into not killing him in this tiny, little enclosed room. He had given up his high ground, and he was only praying that this worked.

"Good evening." Might as well be polite.

She immediately reacted, drawing back, cowering and whispering in Albanian. He pushed aside his natural instinct to console, knowing that to do so would put him right where she liked her victims, in her web.

He adopted a casual stance, keeping his gun steadily trained on her, letting her know that he wasn't going to be played. "I know who you are, ma'am. No need for gamesmanship."

Immediately, her whole demeanor shifted, as if she shed her clothes rather than her outward personality. "I suppose you are here to kill me," she stated with a hint of submission. Straight-forward, which boded well for his new, self-appointed mission.

Obviously, her newest ruse would be that of surrender, and he would have bought it…if not for those keen eyes of his. Her muscles betrayed how very far she was from giving up. "Those are my orders. Been on you for a while. Must say, I was impressed with your counter-surveillance efforts. You have a talent." He could see her mind spinning, looking for an out, but he knew well that her options were non-existant.

Her eyes became determined even as her smile feigned sadness. "I am so glad you took the time to admire my skills before you complete your kill orders. It is good to be appreciated for one's talents, even if they haven't served me well enough to escape you. And I suppose you will try to extract information before you complete those orders." If he hadn't been watching her like a hawk, pardon the pun, he would have missed the subtle shift of her arms in the direction of that blasted knife she kept at her waist.

"Now why would you want to ruin our pleasant conversation by going for that knife?" He stood up from the wall, maintaining the space between them but shaking off the semblance of relaxation. Faster than even his eyes could follow, she pulled the knife and placed it with deadly aim at her own throat. He knew this kind of desperation, knew that he had to distract her from her intent.

"What's your name?" Her hand paused. Well, that seemed to do it. She seemed genuinely puzzled.

"What does that matter?" she spit at him, clutching the knife with a frantic grip.

"Well, I want to know the who and the why if I am going to live with watching you take your own life," he sighed truthfully. If she took her own life, he would carry a much weightier burden than he ever bore for the actual killing he had done before. He didn't know why she was important, but he could feel the truth of it in his bones.

"Live with it, you are going to torture and kill me, why would you care if I accomplished your mission for you?" Shit, he was really fucking this up. Apparently, he was going to have to be more explicit. This was why he sucked at being up close and personal.

"Now don't be putting words in my mouth. I never said I was going to kill you." He smiled a bit, realizing that arguing semantics in this situation was a bit ludicrous. "I said those were my orders."

"I don't understand the distinction." And there was the confirmation of his theory. Her life was not her own, but subject to the whims of her makers.

"Well, I don't imagine my boss will be overly thrilled, but he didn't recruit me because of my ability to follow orders. More my aim." He gestured behind him to his weapon, and he saw understanding flood her expression.

"Hawkeye. SHIELD." Her whispered words triggered a bit of vanity in him, to be known and perhaps feared by such someone of her skill level, but he quickly squashed the feeling, knowing his time was limited to get to his point before she used hers.

"So you know my codename. I suppose I should be flattered. But you also know that I am telling the truth now. So back to my question. What's your name?"

For the first time, he caught a glimpse of something behind the façade, of fear and confusion and uncertainty.

"My name is Widow," she snapped at him. He could see she was angered at his having the upper hand.

"No. I didn't ask your codename, that is what I do know. I want your name." If looks could kill, he would be a rotting corpse, but damned if he didn't love this view into the real her. Because the real her was spitting-mad and she was a sight to behold.

"Ana."

He chuckled at that. She was as hard-headed as him. "You are a stubborn one, aren't you? Not your cover. Your real name. The one your parents gave you?" He waited patiently for her to relent. He had all the patience in the world. Sniper, remember?

"Natasha." The vulnerability, this time unaffected, told him he had finally gotten a piece of the person behind the machinery.

"Well, then, that's better. Nice to meet you, Natasha. My name is Clint, and I am here because I would like to give you a choice."

A reconfigured pick-up, innumerable lectures about orders, and too many in-the-middle-of-nowhere crap missions to count followed, but after her "recruitment," his world was altered. He had no distance. She had become a vital part of his purpose. When teamed together, they were a lethal combination. For her, he became a guardian, a lookout, the only one she trusted to watch her back. For that reason, they were rarely placed on different missions. Which is why he was so petulant about his current placement.

She was in Russia working a cover on a simple information grab, but he still felt uneasy about not having an eye on it. Instead, his eyes were supposed to be glued to this shiny, blue,so-called doorway to space. As he perched on the catwalk above, he wished that she were beside him, poking him and indulging him in his snarky view of the world below. Before he could fall too deep into his sulk, the system monitors began beeping insistently, and the little white coats all started scurrying around like ants…

Well, that isn't good.

**A/N part deux: Okay, I know I said this would be a 2-parter, but I have led Nat and Clint up to the movie's events for a reason. My next story, if there is interest, will explore what they experience during the movie, with attention to their thoughts and feelings. I am hoping to set up a new romantic reality for them. Yay! Hope you follow me on my fic journey! Let me know what you think.**

**On a less serious note, am I the only one who has noticed that Jeremy Renner is a sniper in a whole bunch of movies. I just love him with a gun in his hands. Is that wrong? ;) Which is your favorite Renner movie?**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Sorry for the random non-update, but for those B&A readers who were interested, I wanted to let you know that I have started a chapter story, and the prologue is picking up where I left off here. I also have been writing drabbles about the time in between Clint and Natasha's meeting and the movie (A Still Small Voice). Hope you will give them both a look! **


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